Halfway and Held

This morning.

The jacket halfway open,

the slider caught

on something—a thread,

bad luck, the way

metal refuses to cooperate.

I pull up.

Nothing.

I pull down.

Nothing.

I'm stuck here,

neither warm nor cold,

neither dressed nor undressed,

neither ready to leave

nor late enough to skip it.

The slider won't budge.

My fingers grip the little tongue,

the metal teeth holding

like teeth do,

refusing to let go.

I stand at the door

in this half-state,

learning what it means

to be trapped between

the life I'm leaving

and the one I'm not quite

stepping into yet.